


there's someone in your head waiting to fucking strangle you

by starkhasheart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Hair Washing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pampering, Self Care Rituals, yeah that about sums it up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkhasheart/pseuds/starkhasheart
Summary: Crowley’s general moods can be categorized into black and white boxes, with a space of grey in between.Crowley hits a downswing, and Aziraphale helps him through it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 177





	there's someone in your head waiting to fucking strangle you

**Author's Note:**

> please read me!
> 
> hello! in short, this is 4k words of me Projecting My Mental Illnesses Onto My Favorite Character. this was in no way an attempt to glorify mental illness at all; it was simply a way for me to get some feelings out when i was experiencing a low. 
> 
> please note that the tag for self harm is not referencing a conventional way of self harm but i put it there because i consider what crowley does to be a form anyway. it's not graphic, he just chews his nails until they bleed.
> 
> if you or someone you know is suffering with depression/bipolar disorder, please seek help if you can. everyone needs a support system--aziraphale being crowley's. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy! remember to take care of yourselves!
> 
> as always, since i'm bad with titles, title is from "people ii: the reckoning" by ajj. it's very fitting for this fic.

Crowley’s general moods can be categorized into black and white boxes, with a space of grey in between.

The white box contains what Aziraphale refers to as Crowley’s ‘highs’. Highs, not in the sense of drugs, but in the sense of elevated temperaments. If Aziraphale is paying close attention, he can usually pinpoint when Crowley has entered a heightened state. He’ll be more talkative, taking up entire conversations and rattling on about this or that, whether it be with Aziraphale or with himself, hopping from subject to subject—like his thoughts are in a race they’re eager to win; he becomes easily distracted, trailing off if he comes across an interesting knick-knack in the shop he hasn’t seen, or if a particularly loud car happens to drive past them while they’re walking together on the sidewalk; he’s quick to anger; and not sleeping at _all_. The sleeping part shouldn’t concern him the most, and yet he finds it does anyway.

If the white box is considered the highs, then it’s only natural the black box would be categorized as the ‘lows’. The main one Aziraphale notices is that Crowley will sleep almost excessively, hour naps turning into a day’s-long slumber; he’s quieter, somber even, his demonic charm dulled like a dying lightbulb, and when his eyes are visible, it’s almost like they’re made of glass. Sometimes Aziraphale will observe Crowley lounging on one of the overstuffed couches in the backroom, gazing at the ceiling with a blank expression on his face, eyes glassy, dull, and empty all at once.

It wrenches Aziraphale’s heart in his chest.

With these two boxes out of the way, there exists the grey space between them, a space Aziraphale likes to refer to as ‘medium’. It’s actually more about the sense of normalcy, seeing as Crowley’s moods are level; he talks normally, he sleeps normally, and he gets up to his demonic wiles just for the fun of it—nothing too serious, he’d say, just minor inconveniences.

Although Aziraphale is more familiar with Crowley’s upswings, he is no stranger to the demon’s downswings, and he believes the demon is in one of his lows right now.

It started four days ago. Aziraphale had noticed a rift in their casual conversation, Crowley in his usual spot sprawled across the settee with his head in the angel’s lap. His glasses were off, and Aziraphale assumed the dazed look in his eyes was the product of Aziraphale playing with his hair, which he’s grown out since the world didn’t end. It was when the demon pushed himself up and onto his feet, giving Aziraphale a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, was when the angel realized that something was off. Crowley had merely made an excuse that he had somewhere to be, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple before speed-walking out of the shop so fast that Aziraphale couldn’t question him.

Again, that was four days ago, and Crowley hasn’t been in sight.

They’ve been apart longer before, obviously. But since their relationship adopted the romantic aspect, they’ve found themselves almost attached at the hip. Of course, they’re not together every day—but when they’re away from each other, they’re always in contact at least once to let the other know where they are, and to make plans to see each other again.

It’s been four days.

It’s been four days, and there’s been not a sight nor a peep from Crowley.

One would think Aziraphale should be angry, but he finds that he’s a bit _terrified_. Terrified enough that he decides to phone Crowley. Part of his mind is berating him for seeming clingy, that the demon just needs his space, but it’s muted by all the anxious thoughts bouncing around in his head.

Crowley doesn’t answer the first time he calls.

He tries again.

No answer.

Aziraphale feels like there’s a vice around his throat as he redials the number again. He waits with bated breath as it rings once, twice, thrice—

“ _H’llo?_ ”

 _Oh, thank the Lord_. “Hello, Crowley, darling.”

Aziraphale hears shifting, the creak of a mattress, and a hitching intake of breath. “ _Hey, angel. What’s up?_ ”

Crowley’s voice is thick with sleep and something else entirely. He sounds deadpan, and not in his usual sardonic way, but as if all the life had been sucked out of his corporation at once. Aziraphale _hates_ it.

“Oh, nothing exciting, my love. I was just…” He falters, searching for the right words. “I…I was worried about you.”

It’s still hard to be forthright sometimes, Aziraphale realizes. But he reasons with himself that if he doesn’t then Crowley will never know how he feels.

He hears Crowley curse quietly. “ _Er—I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I just…something came up_.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Crowley inhales again, blowing out a shaky breath in the same beat. There’s a tinny sound of his phone shifting, and Aziraphale thinks he’s sitting up in bed. At least he’s moving, the angel thinks hopefully.

“ _I…it’s complicated. And stupid_.”

“Of course it’s not,” Aziraphale says quickly, tone sharp. He catches himself; Crowley isn’t in a state for an attitude right now. He steels himself, and pushes on, softly. “If…if you can’t find it in yourself to tell me right now, is there…is there anything you need from me right now? Anything at all, my dear.”

Crowley falls silent, and Aziraphale can see an image of him in his mind’s eye—the purse of his lips, his brow furrowed in thought, mop of ginger hair mussed from slumber. Aziraphale finds himself fidgeting nervously.

Finally, the demon speaks up. “ _I don’t wanna be annoying, but…could you come on by my flat and mist my plants? I can’t—I can’t really leave my bed right now_.”

Aziraphale nods to himself, even though Crowley isn’t with him in person. “Of course, dearheart. Would you like me to bring anything with me?”

Crowley makes a noise in his throat. “ _Um. Could you bring me food?_ ”

Aziraphale is slightly taken aback at the request, but nods again. “What would you like, love?”

“ _Pizza_.”

“What kind?”

Crowley hesitates before answering. _“…Hawaiian_.”

Aziraphale begins to make a mental checklist. “Okay, noted. What else?”

The demon hums contemplatively, before murmuring, “ _You know that new bubble tea place that just opened up?_ ”

Aziraphale makes his way to Crowley’s Mayfair flat with a few items in hand: a large Hawaiian pizza, two cups of bubble tea (one for him and one for his love), and a knapsack filled with a book on botany and various knick-knacks that Crowley can toy with to stimulate his brain as a distraction from what he’s going through.

Of course, Aziraphale is familiar with mental illness, having been on Earth for sixty centuries and observing human beings and their actions and habits. He’s got a few books on the subject, even the most recent copy of the DSM, but he obviously does not consider himself an expert—he’s never even been to university. He’s an angel, not a psychotherapist.

What Crowley needs at this moment is a support system, and Aziraphale will gladly be one.

He takes the lift up to Crowley’s floor and lets himself in, deciding that Crowley’s expecting him, and he’s welcome to. He closes the door with a push of his foot and takes in the demon’s flat.

Honestly, Crowley’s living space probably isn’t good for his mental state, either. Everything is hard, dull, and grey, the only proper light source coming from is his conservatory, the fans of his plant’s leaves reaching skyward to soak in the sun’s rays. Aziraphale clucks his tongue, forgoing his scrutiny of the front room in order to find Crowley’s bedroom.

“Crowley, darling?” Aziraphale calls, voice echoing almost eerily through the flat.

“In here, angel,” he hears Crowley say, and his voice sounds even more off than it did on the phone. Frowning, Aziraphale follows his voice until he finds the demon’s room. When he reaches the threshold the angel has to stifle a sharp intake of breath.

If the atmosphere of the flat was heavy, it’s nearly _crushing_ in here. The room is nearly dark, black-out curtains smothering the light attempting to crawl inside, and with the sun trying to bleed through the cracks in the drapes Aziraphale can just barely make out Crowley’s form. He’s laying on his side, swathed in a black comforter. Despite his eyelids drooping, Aziraphale can see that the marigold of his irises have swallowed the whites of his eyes whole.

Even though Aziraphale hates seeing Crowley like this, he can’t help but feel relief at seeing the demon at all. He beams. “Hello, love.”

“Hey,” Crowley says, voice husky, as if he hasn’t used it in a while. He pushes himself into a sitting position, hair a near bird’s nest of tangles. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks sallow. Aziraphale’s smile turns into a frown. “I missed you.”

“Oh, love, I missed you too,” Aziraphale murmurs, approaching the bed before perching on the side. He sets down the pizza box, grabbing the bubble tea. He sets one cup off on the nightstand while he jabs a straw in the other one and offers it to Crowley. “Drink?”

Crowley accepts the drink, taking a tentative sip before sighing in content, eyes fluttering closed. Aziraphale smiles, pushing the pizza box towards him. Crowley hums around the straw, reaching with his free hand to pop open the box.

“Oh, this looks good,” the demon says, picking up a piece of pizza and taking a bite, cheese still hot and stringy. He sighs as he chews, and Aziraphale gazes at him appreciatively. It’s a rare occurrence when Crowley eats, so the angel commits the image to memory. It looks as if the food and drink are working; color has returned to the demon’s pallid complexion.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Aziraphale letting Crowley eat before attempting to breach the heavy topic that needed to be discussed. He’s just relieved to see Crowley at all, his overactive mind prompting all sorts of scenarios that make his stomach churn. He pushes these thoughts to the side, focusing all his attention on the demon, who’s devoured three pieces of pizza within the span of five minutes.

“Darling?” Aziraphale starts, carefully testing the waters lest he fall in unprepared and drown. Crowley makes a humming noise for him to continue, taking a drink of his tea. “Are you all right?”

Crowley’s hum turns into a noncommittal noise. Even though his eyes are visible, Aziraphale can’t read them.

“It’s just that, well, you left the bookshop so quickly, and then I didn’t hear from you in four days,” Aziraphale says. He feels like he’s swallowed sand. “And I was really rather worried—”

“Angel.”

Aziraphale clams up, turning his gaze back to Crowley. The demon isn’t looking at him, yellow glare trained on the bunched-up blankets. He heaves a sigh, taking a final gulp of his tea and setting it on the nightstand before he lays back onto the pillows.

“Sometimes I just…I dunno. I get into these _moods_ , I guess you’d call them. Somedays I’ll just feel normal—well, a semblance of normal that comes with being a demon—and then somedays I’ll feel like, I don’t know—like I’m unstoppable? And my head, all my thoughts, they go—”

“Too fast,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, eyes wide and nearly glowing. “Yeah.” His gaze slides off Aziraphale into the dead space of the bedroom. “And then somedays I just don’t feel _anything_ at all. Like I’m a shell. And then I’ll feel everything at once or I’ll feel nothing _and_ everything at the same time. It’s like there’s someone in my head trying to kill me.” He barks a humorless laugh. “Kind of makes a demon tired.”

“I can see why, dear,” Aziraphale says softly, reaching out to take one of Crowley’s hands. He allows himself a glance at the demon’s fingers, frowning at the sight of nails chewed down to the quick. He brings the hand up to his mouth, pressing angel-soft kisses to the thin skin draw over Crowley’s knuckles, to the blue of his pulse point. Crowley makes a pleased noise.

“I’m not going to lie and say I…haven’t noticed your emotional shifts, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s hand, pressing kisses to the tips of his fingers. With every kiss he leaves a bit of angelic essence, and with the essence Crowley’s torn, bloody nailbeds knit back together, nails growing back to buffed little halfmoons.

Crowley gives him a withering look, but only retracts his hand to replace it with the other one. “You can just call them mood swings, Aziraphale. It’s what they are.”

Aziraphale makes a noise of dissent while he presses kisses to each of Crowley’s fingers, healing them in his wake. At the end, the angel kisses Crowley’s wrist again, and inhales.

“I don’t necessarily think they’re just mood swings, dear,” Aziraphale says. He feels Crowley’s grip on his hand tighten, like it’s a lifeline he’s clinging to.

“Whatever it is, I hate it.” Crowley runs a free hand through his hair and his lips curl into a snarl when his fingers get snagged in tangles.

Aziraphale frowns. “Darling, how _long_ have you been in bed?”

Crowley purses his lips, appearing sheepish. He manages to tug his hand out of his hair, and he looks as if he’s about to worry his nails again with his teeth, but with a sharp glare from Aziraphale, his hand drops onto his lap.

“It’s been four days,” he mutters. “Came to bed as soon as I got home from the shop. Just wanted to see if I could sleep it off.”

“And were you able to?” Aziraphale prompts.

Crowley makes a noise. It sounds choked-off.

“No.”

A heavy pause follows his statement. Aziraphale sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, rubbing soothing circles onto the top of Crowley’s hand. The demon’s eyes still have that glassy look to it, almost as if he’s holding back tears. Aziraphale swallows the lump forming in his throat and he reaches forward with both hands to frame Crowley’s face. The demon’s eyes widen almost comedically, the whites long gone, replaced by sunflower gold.

“Crowley,” the angel says gently. “I’m going to go mist your plants. When I come back, we’ll get you sorted out. Is that okay, dear?”

He sees the demon’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Yeah. Okay.”

Despite worry over Crowley’s health, Aziraphale takes his time spritzing and talking to Crowley’s plants, simply because he knows that’s what the demon would want him to do. The brightness of the room nearly blinds him, a stark contrast to Crowley’s den, but once his eyes adjust, he gets to work.

The plants seem surprised to see him and not their owner, and their leaves seem to be trembling out of curiosity, not fear. Aziraphale spares them a smile, feeling liberal with the mister. He puts his love into every spritz of water, and the drooping plants begin to lift and be revived.

Aziraphale bends down to smile at a tangle of leaves in a small pot, giving it a spray of water. “Not to worry, dears. Crowley will be back in tip-top shape in no time. He just needs someone to take care of him, too.”

Plants, he muses, need various things to survive; nutrients, water, sunlight, et cetera. These things, however, are just necessities to just _survive_. To flourish, however, they need to be shown the utmost care and kindness. Humans are the same in this sense, touch and care even more an essential for stability.

Should a demon be any different?

Pursing his lips, he narrows his eyes at the bundle of leaves in the pot until a stalk sprouts up from the dirt, bursting into a bright sunflower.

“Ah!” Aziraphale exclaims, picking the plant up and scrutinizing it before nodding. “This should be good.”

Preening, the angel finishes misting the plants and marches back to Crowley’s bedroom. The demon has swathed himself in a cocoon of blankets, but he looks up when he hears Aziraphale enter the room. Seeing the angel’s bright smile makes his lips twitch into a bastardization of the same expression.

“A patch of color to brighten up the room,” Aziraphale says, setting the plant onto the nightstand. He puts his hands on his hips, pursing his lips in consideration. “Crowley, would you mind terribly if I open the drapes?”

Crowley worries his bottom lip with his teeth, then nods slowly. Aziraphale smiles and whips around, gently parting the curtains, allowing the smothered sunlight to bleed in. He does it slowly, letting Crowley to get used to the light, and he hears the demon hiss. Once the drapes are open, the angel turns back to Crowley with a smile, seeing the slits of his eyes shrink to near nonexistence to account for the light.

“Plants need sunlight to flourish,” the angel whispers, cupping Crowley’s cheek in his hand. Crowley sighs, leaning into the touch, almost purring like a cat.

“Now,” Aziraphale says. “I’m going to go draw a nice bath for you. Do you think you will be able to get yourself up out of bed for me?”

Crowley makes a noise of consideration, frowning. “You don’t have to do all this for me, angel. I’ll get back in the swing of things eventually.”

“Nonsense. Everyone who is down needs a helping hand for them to get back on their feet.” Aziraphale leans down and presses a chaste kiss to Crowley’s temple. “I’ll run the bath. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Crowley’s bathtub is a hulking monster of a thing, carved out of a hunk of black marble and big enough to fit two beings comfortably. Aziraphale flicks on the faucet, tweaking the water temperature until it’s just right. He scours along Crowley’s bathroom, lighting candles for ambience and sprinkling the rising water with bath salts and lavender-scented oils. He pours in a bit of bubble bath, smiling as the calming scents waft through the air and bubbles rise to the surface.

He hears shuffling, and he glances up to see Crowley sauntering into the bathroom. Aziraphale can’t help but beam at his demon, standing to meet him halfway.

“There we go, there’s a love,” Aziraphale says, leaning to press a kiss to the demon’s nose. Crowley scrunches his face up. “Have you brushed your teeth at all?”

“Don’t really need to, Aziraphale,” Crowley says flatly. “…but no. I haven’t.”

“Can you do that for me, please?” the angel prompts, and in his hands are suddenly a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He holds them up and smiles. “I need to go grab some towels.”

Crowley snorts, plucking the toothbrush and toothpaste out of Aziraphale’s hands with aplomb. “If it makes you happy, angel.”

“It would greatly.” Aziraphale kisses the tip of Crowley’s nose again and pushes past him to scour the flat for towels.

After going on a wild goose chase around the demon’s flat with no towels to show for it, Aziraphale just opts to miracle some out of thin air, soft and fluffy and warm. He returns to the bathroom to see Crowley perched on the edge of the tub, staring into the water like it could reveal the world’s mysteries. At the sound of the angel approaching, he looks up, and his mouth twitches into something that could resemble a smile.

“Here we are then.” Aziraphale sets the towels next to the tub, grinning. “Teeth brushed, I take it?”

“Minty fresh,” Crowley says, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Perfect. Can you undress for me or will you need assistance?”

Crowley hums, worrying the fraying hem of his T-shirt. “I mean…I wouldn’t object to you helping me. You’re so good at it, you know.”

Aziraphale sighs, rolling his eyes. But he complies, helping Crowley up from the edge of the tub, gently coaxing his worn shirt over his head. Expanses of pale skin dusted with freckles are revealed and Aziraphale presses kisses to sharp juts of collarbone. Crowley sighs, melting as if he’s never been touched in his life.

“Hello there,” Crowley says, a suggestive lilt to his voice once Aziraphale slides his pajama bottoms off. Aziraphale spares him a glare, tapping the demon’s ankle. Crowley complies, lifting his feet up until his bottoms are off and he’s completely bare in front of the angel. “Happy to see me?”

“Honey, I’m always happy to see you,” Aziraphale murmurs, rising to Crowley’s height to frame his face with his hands. He leans in to crush his lips against Crowley’s, smirking, because yes, he did brush his teeth. He pulls away, saying, “Into the bath, yes?”

When he sinks into the water, Crowley lets out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. The water nearly swallows him whole, hitting right to his shoulders. His head lolls back enough where snarled tendrils of hair drape over the back of the tub. Aziraphale tuts and steps over to that side, perching on a squat stool that hadn’t been there before.

“What’re you doin’, angel?” Crowley drawls.

“I’m going to work on this bird’s nest of hair on your head,” Aziraphale answers, pulling a comb out of the air.

The demon merely hums in response, sighing again once the angel gets his fingers into his hair. Aziraphale figures his best plan of attack is to separate the hair into segments rather than go at it head-on. He wants to minimize any pain Crowley experiences, because he knows the demon’s been dealing with enough lately.

So he sets to work, gingerly guiding his comb through gnarled locks of Crowley’s hair, soothing the demon when he hisses when one of the comb’s teeth get snagged. When each segment becomes smooth, Aziraphale presses a kiss to the crown of Crowley’s head, congratulating him on being strong, on allowing the angel to do this for him. With each pass of the comb, Aziraphale hears Crowley’s breathing become shaky and ragged, and when, finally, every hair on his head is tamed and smoothed accordingly, the demon’s shoulders are shaking with tight sobs.

“There, there, love,” Aziraphale coos, peppering kisses along the back of Crowley’s neck. “You did so well. You’re so good for me, you know that, right?” He combs his fingers through copper strands, rubbing soothing circles into the demon’s scalp. “May I wash your hair now, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yeah,” Crowley rasps, sniffling. “The sandalwood shampoo, please.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, smiling even though Crowley can’t see.

He pours warm water over Crowley’s head, careful not to get any in his eyes, and massages a generous amount of shampoo onto his scalp, taking care to cover each strand of hair. Crowley purrs, pushing his head into Aziraphale’s hands, aching for more contact. When he washes the shampoo out, he leans up to kiss Crowley’s forehead, grinning against wet skin. He does the same with conditioner as well, letting it linger on the demon’s mane a smidge longer to really make it soft and shiny.

“Wonderful, my dear,” the angel says softly, once the tub is drained and he’s helped Crowley out, swathing him in a fluffy towel as soon as the demon’s feet hit the bathroom floor. Crowley’s legs seem to have adopted the consistency of gelatin, and he wobbles, leaning a shoulder on Aziraphale for support. “How are you faring, Crowley?”

“Mm. A bit better,” the demon mumbles, sighing as Aziraphale helps towel his hair dry.

“Fantastic.” Blowing out the candles with a flick of his wrist, Aziraphale wraps an arm around Crowley’s shoulders to lead him back to his bedroom, unable to resist the urge to nose along his hair and inhale deeply. Aziraphale sighs, eyelids fluttering in content.

Aziraphale kicks off his brogues and helps Crowley into a clean set of pajamas before he maneuvers them into bed, crawling under the blankets. Immediately Crowley is clinging to his side, burying his face into the crook of the angel’s neck. Aziraphale gathers the demon in his arms, nearly pulling him onto his lap.

“Thank you,” Crowley whispers against Aziraphale’s skin. “I’ve always had to deal with this alone before.”

It hits Aziraphale, then, that besides his companionship, Crowley has been truly alone his entire life, ever since he Fell. Demons don’t make friends; they’re merely coworkers that could destroy you at a moment’s notice. Even if Crowley happened to strike up a friendship with a human, it would be over in nearly a blink of an eye.

“If this happens again, promise me you won’t run off and isolate yourself?” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s hair, tightening his arms around him.

Crowley sniffles. “Mm-hm.”

“Good.” Aziraphale gazes down at Crowley, and their eyes meet; the demon’s irises have returned to mere circles, which the angel takes as a good sign. “Crowley?”

“Yeah, angel?”

And Aziraphale smiles, cupping Crowley’s face with his hand. “I’m with you. You’re not alone anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> on a lighter note, i think for my next fic i'm just gonna write them smoking weed
> 
> [follow me on tumblr!](http://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com)


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